Wednesday's Child
by Dr Whatsit
Summary: A gifted psychologist once told him that a person’s entire demeanor could be determined by the way they knocked on doors.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I'm stepping off on an unstable limb here with this. Here's a story that could become completely AU after the next episode or so. If it does, I promise to keep the characters true to well, their character.

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face  
Tuesday's child is full of grace  
Wednesday's child is full of woe  
Thursday's child has far to go  
Friday's child is caring and giving  
Saturday's child works hard for a living…_

* * *

**Wednesday's Child  
**Chapter One:

* * *

Knock. Knock. Tap. Knock. Tap. Knock. Knock. Whack!

A gifted psychologist once told him that a person's entire demeanor could be determined by the way they knocked on doors. Two times softly, you had a new secretary. Three times heavy and loud, you had yourself an angry client or spouse. No knock, just chatter, you had Loker. Knock a little ditty, she'd warned, eyes glinting from under thick eyelashes, and you had an asocial, highly unstable man.

Well, good. Let Gillian think he had bipolar disorder, ADHD, or a case of Parkinson's. He didn't care as long as it got the job done.

"Foster, open up!" Knock. Knock. Whack! Whack!

"Not in her office, Boss," the sloppily thrown-together research psychologist stated helpfully, his hands in his blue jeans—incredible knack for showing up and leaning again perfectly clean walls, that man had. "I was busy admiring her outfit, that red dress, V-Neck," he demonstrated by gesturing toward his chest and then pointing down. "Nice fit…"

"Point, Loker. Make one, I haven't got all day."

"Well, I was in the middle of explaining why certain men are attracted to freckles when she told me, quote 'I'm going to go get lunch. Don't follow me. Tell Lightman that I've left if he comes knocking.' End quote"

Tapping the handle with his index finger, Cal narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Loker nodded without expression, as if willing his boss to accept the explanation without any further question. Blinking, the older man angled a manila folder at the younger, "I thought you didn't go for married women."

The smile Cal received was unrelenting, "That doesn't mean I can't appreciate the view."

"Don't you have…_things_ to do?" Cal tested to see if her door was locked, throwing a puzzled look over his shoulder when the door open. "Well, go on; get out of here before Foster comes back with something I can throw at you."

Grinning, Loker pushed away from the wall and saluted, "Yes, I have plenty of _things _to do. If you consider staring at the inside of my eyelids an action…" he threw up his hands in surrender, "but I digress." Pivoting on his heal, the young man slumped his way down the hall before rounding the corner.

With a slight twitch of his eyebrow, Cal turned his attention to the door and eased it open. Glance to the left. Crane the neck to the right. Watch out for the potted plant—why she kept it where it could be smashed by eccentric door openers, he would never know. Turn on the light. Ah, he was in. And it was, well…

It was clean. It was always clean; and as he was human by nature, Cal Lightman was utterly perplexed every time he walked in. Floor, spotless. Walls, Loker-less. Desk, tidy. He wanted to know where she kept everything she hoarded, and one day he might stumble upon the answer to the mystery—but not today. She'd be back in no time, and there was nothing dignified about being caught with your hand in your partner's desk drawer.

Sighing, the deception expert trudged across the office and plopped down on her chair, the manila folder skidding ungracefully to a halt on the corner of her desk. He'd count the dots on the ceiling until she returned.

* * *

"_I'm sorry. It's the meetings, you know...how about Wednesday? I'm sure I could steal and hour for lunch."_

"_I know I promised that I'd meet you today, but... I'm sorry, Gillian, I've got to go." _

"_If you'll leave me a message after the beep, I'll get back to y---"_

"Hey, Dr. Foster!"

Heals clipped briskly across concrete as Torres jogged after the psychologist, the volume of her call causing several unfamiliar faces in the square to stare before going back to their business. She had to call her name a second time before Gillian heard and came to a stop, turning in time to smile at the young recruit. "Ria! I'm sorry, I thought I heard someone calling my name, but it didn't register. What's up?"

"I saw you heading out and thought I could come along, find out what around here is good to eat." Brown eyes flickered toward the food carts before sweeping back toward the Lightman Center. When they finally came to rest on Gillian again, the psychologist was grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing," tugging her black half-sweater tightly around her waist, the older woman smiled again before stopping. "You're not hungry." Another pause, "What's up? Really."

Ria deflated, her pace tuckering out as she fell nearly an entire step behind. "How do you do it? I mean, I ask Loker and he tells me that it's easy, stop lying or stop talking. Then I ask Dr. Lightman, and he tells me that I'll figure it out."

Gillian understood and held up a hand to silence her, "You're new. It's difficult for you. You want every truth exposed, every lie to be displayed with a neon sign, but we don't do that—it's not what you thought you were signing on for. Look, Ria, it's difficult at first. There's nothing wrong with feeling uncomfortable, but there comes a point when you need to distinguish your personal beliefs from your professional."

"What do you mean?"

"_You_ see the world as black and white, right and wrong. When you see a lie, you want it exposed; but you need to learn to turn it _off_." Gillian gave her a crooked smile, "If you don't, you're going to end up like Dr. Lightman or Loker, and it's _my_ professional belief that you don't want to travel down that slippery slope."

"I just...you're sure it gets easier?" The young woman had steeled herself again, posed herself behind a stern face.

Squeezing her shoulder softly, Gillian nodded, "I promise."

Sensing the shift in the Ria's demeanor, Gillian turned away and clapped her hands together, peering around the area eagerly, "Now, I'm hungry and missed breakfast. If you really want to know where the best food is, I could use the company."

"Wasn't your husband supposed to meet you today?" Ria asked boldly.

If Gillian detected the undertone of disgust in the Natural's voice, she didn't let it show.

"He couldn't make it."

There was something about the blank expression her superior sported that made Ria's curiosity itch and anger flare, but she bit her tongue and followed the woman through the lunch crowd, "You know what, I think I am hungry..."

* * *

Three hundred and twelve. Three hundred and thirteen. Three hundred and...wait, hadn't he been at three hundred and thirty over seven squares ago?

"Did you know that it is impolite to wait in someone's office when they aren't there," she _was_ wearing a red dress, one with a black sweater to diminish the effect of the V-neck Loker had been fascinated by.

Cal watched with raised eyebrows, his fingers tapping on the arm rests of the chair as she eased slowly across the room and half-sat on the outer corner of her desk. Pushing her sleeves up past her elbow, Gillian scooped up the folder he had discarded and began to flip through it, her eyes flickering in his direction before she continued, "You should say something, you know, to ease the eerie sensation of finding you in my office without me."

Leaning back, he cleared his throat, "Did it ever occur to you that Loker might be getting worse?"

Licking the pad of her index finger, Gillian began sifting through the paperwork, one eyebrow shooting up as she considered his question. "He's harmless."

Shaping his fingers into a square, Cal adjusted them near his eyes until her chest was perfectly framed, "He finds your cleavage appealing." He tilted his hands until the box distorted and gave a better view—now that he was looking, he'd be hard pressed to find any straight man who didn't.

The folder made a soft whooshing sound before it hit him on the forearm.

Moving his eyes up, Cal was greeted with the sight of his partner frowning, "What? Well, it's _true._"

"I know it's true!" she admonished, "I had to listen to a ten minute monologue on my freckles no more than an hour ago." Cal opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, "And I am fully aware he told Torres that he'd like to have sex with her, _that _traveled fast enough to cause a sonic boom; and if there is any more Loker-words-of-wisdom you want to spread, yesterday he told me that the skirt I was wearing made my butt look big." She pressed a hand to her chest, "But I managed to survive." Sarcasm, something was wrong with her today. "He's harmless, Cal."

He made a show of tilting his head and turning the chair to take a look, "If it's any consolation, you're butt looks much slimmer today."

She glowered at him, "What did you come here for? Because, while I'd like to think frustrating me was your primary reason, some small part of me still insists that you are human and actually like to get work done."

"It's all in the folder," he pointed before standing and moving haggardly around her desk, his eyes darting away from her as he did—down and to the left in aversion to her well aimed words. It always came back to his humanity with her.

As he reached her office door, Gillian turned, "Cal, did you really invade my office just to make sure I got a report?"

He stopped and stared out into the hall, "Just because you have a nagging voice that keeps insisting I'm human, it doesn't mean that frustrating you wasn't my primary motivation for dropping in." Caving, he peered back in time to see the ashamed downcast of her eyes before they met his...apologetically?

"Loker," he nodded to the research psychologist as he ambled into the room, breaking what'd had the potential of being a dangerously charged silence.

"Dr. Foster, have I ever mentioned that your office looks a lot like Dr. Lightman's, only without the serial killer-ness? Which is actually kind of disappointing, if you ask me..."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Well, the last episode played into my plot. So, instead of making you guys read a written version of it, I've adjusted the entire premise. Which means, and I apologize for this, but the chapters will come slower. Good news, each character will have plot. So, Ria and Loker won't be floating around with nothing to do.

And I even had a roof scene plan.

* * *

**Wednesday's Child**

Chapter Two

* * *

She apologized, the words 'I'm sorry' scrawled with her small handwriting on a yellow post-it. Cal had found it at the end of the day, stuck with her unwavering precision on one of the pictures in his wall collage. It had taken a chair and a remarkable amount of daring and balance for him reach it. Gillian wouldn't risk injury without having reason to, she must had chosen the placement of the note carefully; which meant the picture beneath the post-it held just as much meaning as the words.

He examined the photograph carefully, his head titled: down turned eyes, slightly furrowed brows, no noticeable muscle movement around the mouth. Sadness. The question was, had she managed to see it on his face as he'd walked by her, or did this represent hers?

Tricky.

The post-it made light, airy sounds as he transferred it from one hand to the other continuously, absently flapping it between each release.

"You know, they make mirrors for that."

Loker. Uncanny timing.

Cal continued to stare at the photographs, aware that his face was mere inches from a ridiculously enlarged picture of him. It was as though he was having a staring contest with himself. Odd looking, no doubt. But Gillian was apologizing to him for hurting his feelings. Why, though? They had gone through this before and it had never bothered her to the point of sticking a puzzle by way of post-it on his wall.

"Hello, earth to Dr. Lightman. You're not that good looking..." More words.

Could this have something to do with the earlier visit of sarcasm in her tone?

"But I do have to tell you, now that you're taking a look...see your nose, it really is that big."

A silencing hand wave, eyes moving from the photograph to the psychologist. "Loker, would you ever apologize for off-handedly calling me inhumane?"

The young man squinted an eye shut and peered upward in thought with the other. "Well, no, because if I ever had reason to call you inhumane, I'd mean it, and there's no sense in apologizing for telling the truth." He paused before asking, "Why? Did you finally realize the collage makes you look like a lunatic?"

Stepping down from the chair, Cal pocketed the post-it before walking by him, "Kettle. Pot. Black."

Loker nodded, "True, but you didn't answer my question."

"I thought it was rhetorical," Cal shot back, leaving the the young man alone in his office.

* * *

"Hey, Dad..." Emily entered the living room, her hand held out with a yellow post-it attached to her index finger, "Why would your coat be sorry?" This was the story of her life; look for a package of gum in his belongings and locate a mystery instead. Her father seemed full of them these days. Well, more so than usual.

She noted his brooding state and slouched against the door.

Peering over the top of the journal, Cal felt a small surge of shock, "Go put that back...and stay out of my jacket, or I'll start lining it with asbestos." Defensive; but he couldn't understand why it bothered him so much that she'd found it.

Disregarding him, Emily sauntered further into the room and plopped onto an armchair. "Who's sorry? For What?" She looked at the post-it, holding it up to the light and speaking before he could answer, "The handwriting looks like a girl's. Can't be Loker, then, not that he'd ever say sorry to you." She frowned, "Who'd actually apologize to you, Dad, you're a grump?"

His eyes conveyed his displeasure, "That's none of your business. Go do your homework."

She was a teenager, they could sniff out conversational topics that made their parents squirm, and the discomfort of adults was too appealing to this generation's young. "But, Dad..."

Leaning forward, he snatched the note from her hand, "Don't '_but Dad...'_ me. Especially in that tone, you sound like your mother."

A thoughtful glaze had filled her impressionable eyes, she was ignoring the chiding. "Was it Dr. Foster? She's the only person I know who would..."

"Homework..." Cal stressed, turning his eyes back to the journal in an effort to end the discussion.

"It was her! Why? What'd she do? Tell me. She's so nice. I don't know why she apologized, you probably deserved it." Definitely just like her mother; never pausing to take a breath or to consider the impact of her arguments.

"What part of _none of your business_ do kids your age not understand?" He waved his hand at her, "I blame the Internet, it's made you all nosy." He was losing this battle, it was in his tone; just the slightest twang of resignation, the anger behind it lackluster. Cal fully expected her to exploit it.

Emily did, "Please, it's not like I'm going to tell all my friends. They don't even know who she is... Pleeease. Pleeeeeeeeaaaase?" She threw her forearms against the armrest and leaned, "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease."

He caved, realizing that further denial would only make the pleas longer. It wasn't desirable. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" There was disbelief in her question; it was nice to know his daughter still thought he knew everything. "You have to."

"She called me inhumane in so many words, if that's what you mean, but I don't know why she's apologizing. It's happened before." He waggled his eyebrows, teasing as he added, "You don't know it, but Dr. Foster is a bully. She beats me up."

The fifteen-year-old grinned. "Be serious." Her eyes drifted toward the post-it, where it stuck to the corner of the science journal. "Why didn't she just say it in person?"

He followed her gaze, her question reflecting the one he'd been asking himself all day. "I don't know that either."

"Maybe she's hiding something?" Emily offered. "I mean, you can tell when someone's lying. Maybe she isn't really sorry."

"She is."

Emily shrugged, "Maybe shekilledsomeone?" Quick succession of words, no pause in between, Emily didn't believe it. In fact, she was embarrassed by the thought. Knowing that she could even think of it still hit him like a moving brick wall, though.

Cal stared at her blankly, the silence spanning long enough for proverbial crickets to chirp in the absence of sound. Then he blinked and furrowed his brows at her, "You've been watching too much television..."

He was allotted an indifferent shrug as she plopped back into the chair, "You were always the one who told me not to rule anything out." Good recovery; his insult had made her snatch the argument up with a certain degree of gusto. He'd remember that phenomena for later occurrences .

Setting the journal aside, Cal folded his arms and tapped his foot on the ground before pointing his finger at her steadily, "No, I told you not to rule out the possible." The finger acquired a swooping wag, "Idiocy, now that's something I wouldn't want you touching with a ten foot pole."

She glared, "...Dad. Come on."

His attention was reinvested in the discarded literature. "Enough."

"Dad! Think about it, what would she be afraid of telling you? I mean, seriously, you know almost everything."

Note the _almost_; he was going to have a hell of a time convincing her he had eyes everywhere now.

Paper crinkled nosily as he flipped the packet back to the article he had been reading, "She hasn't killed anyone, Emily."

Her jaw jutted out stubbornly, her arms crossing her chest as she pressed on in a challenge. "How do you know? Maybe she's been hiding it and you can't tell." Teenagers, they could never argue without contradicting themselves. Hadn't Gillian told him that one? She'd probably thrown in a statistic as well, along with a smirk and an eye roll. She always found his problems with Emily amusing.

Cal recalled the smirk-y eye roll and relented, "No. I know because I'm the only one who could make her angry enough to do it, and there's a reasonable lack of knives in my back." Too possessive of the ability to spur the psychiatrist's emotions—he cringed inwardly, when had he started believing he was the only one who could alter her demeanor?

When he felt the continued gaze of his daughter on his forehead, Cal looked up, "I knew the instant your pet ferret died that you'd become a young woman morbidly obsessed with death." He sighed, "But no one believed me."

Confusion flitted across her face, "What does this have to do with Jack?"

He stared, conveying the answer through unwavering eye contact, willing this non sequitur to work and divert Emily's attention away from Gillian's unlikely homicidal tendencies.

"Oh my god! It wasn't natural causes! You killed my ferret!? I knew it!"

"No, of course not. What a sick and deranged thing to do." Cal yawned, turning the page. "It was your mother. With the vacuum. In the living room."

His daughter's jaw dropped and eyebrows tucked softly toward the bridge of her nose, and then the expression was gone. Cal stared, however, his eyes narrowing as his mind snatched on to the cataloged memory of the arrangement of pictures on his office wall. He looked toward the post-it; she'd put it in the lower left hand corner of Sadness, directly diagonal to a half picture of Shock. Placement meant something.

What did surprise have to do with it?

"It was an accident," he sympathized absently, his gaze strangely distant, a dual tone tinging the edge of his voice.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for their kind reviews. Usually I try my hardest to respond to each, but my time has been limited. I'll do my best after this chapter. Thanks!

* * *

Wednesday's Child

Chapter Three:

* * *

Research psychology was a one way ticket to falling out of shape, Eli Loker was certain of it. A time had existed once when he could do a lap or two around the building without having to stop for a breath, but that had ended three months into the job, after Lightman quit dodging his radical honesty and Foster had learned that blisters weren't worth sparing her ears. Still, he'd have to make a note somewhere that swiveling in office chairs while balancing pencils on your nose was not a sufficient workout, just in case he was ever indisposed and another impressionable psychologist was hired in his place.

"Torres," he panted, his palm coming in contact with the frame of the doorway as he rounded to a halt, "you've got to learn to slow down." He caught his breath quickly, aware of the _What do you want? _Plastered across her face. "Foster didn't tell you, then?"

"No," her tone suggested that he was an idiot, the way she pursed her lips as she uttered the monosyllable seconded the idiot-motion.

Lovely mood she was in. It was a reoccurring pattern, he'd discovered.

"Someone spit in your coffee this morning?" Eli ventured.

"What hasn't Foster told me?" Ria leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. Impatience. She was so readable, and he loved it.

"You're with me," he stated proudly, all but beating his fists across his chest. "She needs a study completed, and I need a lab rat." Eli paused, taking in her poorly contained frustration as she remained seated, "You're the lab rat, if there was any confusion."

He half expected her to fling a shoe at him, but she stood instead and brushed past him. Twirling, he walked into the hallway after her, his eyes flickering down to watch the movement of her hips. Speaking of shoes, "You're not used to walking in heels are you?"

Ria's glare was lackluster; aha! she did have varying emotions, that would bode well for the study. "Well, it's just," he pointed to her feet, "you keep trying to step heel to toe. I've watched Foster enough to know that it should be toe to heel. You get less jerk that way, more sway." Flicking out his wrists, Eli slid up beside her and grinned.

She rolled her eyes and picked up her pace, "What study do you need me for?"

They reached the end of the hall, where left led to the main offices and right to the observation rooms. Eli jabbed his thumb to the right and jerked his head that way in emphasis, they altered their course. There was a bit of pep in his step when he answered, a trademark Loker Grin on his face as he squeezed her shoulder, "Oh, definitely one you're going to hate."

Opening a lab door, Eli gave her a gentle push, "But don't blame me, it was all Foster."

The door closed on Ria's remarkably confused face.

* * *

Knock. Tap.

The scene on Cal's wall flickered to a pause as he turned to face the observation room door. Glass, a perfect opportunity for preparing oneself for the company they were about to receive before they actually received it. Why have peepholes when the entire door could be see-through, that had been his philosophy for years.

Because, Loker had argued once, peepholes are one way for one man pleasure; glass doors let everyone else in on all the fun.

He knew it was Gillian before his eyes landed on her. The sound of her knuckles on the glass had been loud but hurried, notorious of someone who wasn't in the habit of actually making use of any particular knocking technique; which was understandable, as neither asked permission to interrupt the other. But she was now. Frowning, he waved her in; this was not the time for her to play meek.

"See that?" he asked her, waving toward the wall with the frozen scene.

Gillian squinted, her frown matching his, "So our man is lying?" She waved the manila folder at him, "I read through it, and it looks like New London is going to be out of a mayor." Pointing at the scene, she moved beside him, "Is he the one that was in on the extortion?"

"Got it in one," Cal stated. "Distancing language throughout the interview. Right there he's rubbing his arm; manipulation. Look of contempt plastered across the right side of the face. I'd say Mr. Clifton here was behind the entire thing, and the mayor just jumped on the bandwagon. He only accomplished landing on his ass if you ask me."

"If only they were in Illinois, not New Hampshire..." her words trailed off and ended with a smile. "I can be on the phone with the Governor in five minutes. The evidence is clear enough, both men will be out of office and arrested by lunch."

She was focusing on business, not out of the ordinary for Gillian; but coupled with the knock and her posture, she screamed uncomfortable. That's it, Cal thought with a grim smile, she didn't want him to bring up the apology. Which meant the apology itself was a means of hiding something from him despite its genuine nature. Fair enough, every woman deserved her own mystery, just as every man had the right to solve them.

Her unblinking blue eyes caught his, the upward curve of her lips giving silent but gentle reproach for his staring. Cal accepted it with a curt nod before turning his attention back to the wall, his thumb pressing down on the play button. Both watched as the interview came to an end, Ray Clifton struggling to hold his composure against what he deemed unfair charges. Lies waved off of him like a steamed vegetable, which was a fair simile, as the man resembled an overripe tomato to begin with.

The wall returned to its normal state, leaving the two doctors in a spell of silence. Several seconds ticked by as both deftly avoided the other's eyes. It wasn't like them to be this surrounded by awkward tension, and Cal hoped that it wouldn't last long. Something was up with her; the sarcasm, the post-it, the knock...each separate would make his concern seem unfounded, but combined they validated it.

Gillian was halfway to the door before he realized she was leaving.

"Hey," he called, tapping the remote against his palm as she turned to face him.

"Yeah?" Patience. She expected something else on the case.

Cal hesitated, the remote still bumping softly against his hand. Damn Emily for putting this silly notion into his head, but he was a scientist and the young girl was right, no possibility could be ruled out until proven impossible. "You haven't killed anyone, have you?"

Perplexity; her eyes screamed it, but the lilting smirk she shot his direction let him know she knew his game. He might as well have waved the post-it in her face and asked her what it meant. The smirk turned to a grin as she tugged open the door, "Not that I'm aware of."

The remote was jabbed in her direction as he furrowed his brows, "You better not be lying to me."

She snorted and shook her head, the door closing behind her with a swish.

"Idiocy. Ten foot pole," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he stared after her.

* * *

"This is pointless," chin rested on palm, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. Ria Torres was bored beyond conceivable measure. Good, it's what Foster wanted; complete boredom, boredom so redundantly mundane that the Natural's senses would be dulled.

After all, the older woman had stated, they still had to be able to count on Ria, sharp on her feet or not.

"Pointless isn't an option," he chimed, swiveling his chair to address her. "Just watch the footage, write all the emotional triggers you see," a pause of emphasis, "and stay awake."

She grabbed up the pen with more force than necessary and refocused her attention to the screen. Pictures appeared in no specific order, running on a three minute loop. The name of the game was to choose who in the snap shot was feeling what, read a small, one hundred word explanation for the said emotion shown, then determine whether the explanation gave the likely cause or not (if not, supply the correct one yourself). Her brain felt as though it had been reduced to the consistency of watered down mush. So, the question was, if she shook her head, would the mush slosh against her skull? Silly thing to be focusing on. Must. Pay. Attention.

"How is it coming along?" Foster's cheery voice, the dual bringer of relief and anger, filled the room.

"It's not," Ria mumbled, dropping the pen again while fixing an intense stare on the older woman--this entire study was her fault—but Foster ignored it pleasantly.

"Just as we thought," Eli spoke over her, "she's scoring a perfect on recognizing the expressions but is crashing and burning with the reasoning." Looking over to Ria, Loker seemed to shrug an apology, "It's typical of naturals, they haven't gone through enough training to comprehend the drive behind the emotion."

Gillian leaned against the station and peered down at Ria's work, her displeasure tempered with understanding. She read silently for several long minutes before coughing, having skimmed across Ria's explanation for why anger had dominated the eighth picture. "Loker, did you tell her that 'This is pointless' was not an option?"

He rolled his eyes, "You expected her to listen?"

"Hey," Ria interjected, "I'm sitting right here!"

Pulling away from the two, Gillian smiled, mirth radiating off of her with so much force that the Natural was momentarily struck speechless. Was the good humor a sham? Ria couldn't tell, but there was a definite lack of movement around Foster's eyes…

Without waiting for Ria to recover, Gillian turned back to Loker, "Run her through a few more." She waved Ria's work and turned around with a soft chuckle, "Cal's going to love this."

The door closed and Loker whistled, turning his attention back to the near-seething woman beside him, "That went well, considering…"

Ria seemed to calm, her arms crossing lightly in front of her chest, "What's this study really for, Loker?"

Ignoring her, Loker focused on the screen. Finally, after a long string of silence, he smiled, his voice coming out in a chime. "Someone's falling behind in their homework…"

"That didn't answer my question…"

"It was a test, Torres."

"But… but you said it was a study…"

He shrugged, "Test. Study. Completely exchangeable terms in the field of psychology…"

The pen was snatched away from her before she could do him any serious harm.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Only this chapter and another to go. My writing style often calls for breaks in between each scenes with little-to-no transition. I realize it can be a bit annoying, and I hope that it doesn't hinder anyone in any way. I fear in the case of Lie to Me, my writing style also calls for readers to make up their minds about the material themselves...ambiguity is there to allow you to make of what happens as you fancy, so you aren't constricted to one set opinion. The story moved faster than I thought, but I don't like to drag my plots out to more than several chapters. Alas, novel writing will never be a forte of mine.

* * *

**Wednesday's Child**

Chapter Four

* * *

Ria Torres did not resort to violence; too many memories of it tempered her past with pain, an emotion and physical state that had followed her into adulthood. Her words, no matter how angry, were never followed with a fist or an open palm or a knee. She radiated her contempt through facial expressions, posture, burning eyes and tainted words, but even then she felt herself recoiling in disgust at her rampant emotions in the end, when the object of her distaste disappeared behind a door or around a corner or down the street. Men were the targets of her anger, women gained her sympathy. It was why she couldn't watch Foster around her husband without jumping Lightman afterward. He knew. He _knew_! And despite his reasoning for not telling Foster, his unwillingness to tell a person who trusted him the truth was an act of passive violence in itself.

Ria's anger was simmering just below boiling point.

"That's the second time this week he's canceled lunch on her." She followed Lightman through the halls, ignoring his posture as it screamed _Lay off_! "Did you know that? First Wednesday and now—"

"I've told you," he spoke without turning, "It's none of your business."

She tried to speak and he stopped, turning to face her, "Look Torres, you been here a couple of weeks," his hand waved in a _give or take_ gesture, voice the epitome of condescending, "you're starting to get use to the flow of _things._" He cut her off before she could attempt to control the conversation, "_But_, Gillian tells me you're still not using your head...that you're still relying too heavily on your emotions and not your reasoning." He began to turn away, but stopped and pointed at her, a tinge of rage seeping between his collected facade, "I'll tell you what, you score as well on the psychology portion of the test as you did on the deception detection, and I'll take your complaints about how I'm dealing with her personal life seriously."

He disappeared into his office, leaving Ria in the hall, fidgeting with a mixture of embarrassment and disgust.

"Lightman has a point you know," It was Loker, face serious, lacking any edge of a smirk. "You're amazing when it comes to pointing out lies but you completely fail at knowing why they're being told."

"I don't want to hear it," she snapped, walking away from him. His need to give his opinion on everything was grating to already frayed nerves.

He caught up with her, "Look, Torres, if you keep thinking with your heart and not your head, you're going to do something stupid."

She stopped and whirled, eyes ablaze but voice quiet. "Are all of you crazy? It's like I've stepped into the Twilight Zone. Everyone is lying to everyone else, and they _know _it. You all _know it_, Loker, and not one of you says a damn thing about it!"

Loker rarely showed impatience, but he did now, it was in his pursed lips and minutely scrunched brow. "Do you know why you make Lightman so angry?" He waited for her to answer, but she didn't, "You're butting into something you don't understand. What you're doing isn't protecting Foster, it's arrogance, Ria. By telling him he's wrong for not blowing the whistle on Foster's husband, you're not only calling him and idiot...but you're calling her one too." He took a breath pressing his hands together at the fingertips, "I thought you would have figured it out by now; Lightman doesn't care if you think he's the closest thing to insane on this side of the solar system, but the second you make assumptions about his intentions with Gillian...It's not black and white. That's all I'm trying to tell you. They know what they're doing, Torres, and neither of us are invited to the party. Get use to it."

Her jaw worked, but words failed her. Restrain yourself, her mind screamed, he has a point. Loker wouldn't be saying it if he didn't see a truth in it. Breathe, you're not always right. Crossing her arms, Ria cleared her throat and flickered a look of contempt in the direction of Lightman's office. It still bothered her, it probably always would, but Loker was staring at her with newly obtained patience, wide eyes willing her to understand that this wasn't her place, that she couldn't duck under the ropes that surrounded another person's business.

You can be angry, she soothed herself as she counted to ten, or you can learn to be right. "All right," she sighed, nodding at him in defeat. "You're right," she barely met his gaze, but there was truth in her admission.

"Come on," he pressed, inviting her to follow him, "I'll help you figure out the grey of things."

* * *

The post-it had gained a permanent position on the lower left corner of his computer monitor. It was a yellow reminder that an uncomfortable rift had edged its way into the partnership he shared with Gillian, one that had appeared quite some time ago. _I'm sorry_, two words coupled with pictures of surprise and shock. Torres anger had transferred to him, settled into his bones as he tried to piece together a puzzle he wasn't sure Gillian wanted him to fully comprehend. Why was she testing him?

_She'll tell me herself, if she wants me to know_, he repeated to himself, a mantra that had begun the night he'd sat outside of Alec's work. _She'll tell me herself, if she wants me to know_. Know what, though? The subject of her marriage was one he found himself teetering between knowing the details and not. He'd never brought himself to the point of asking her...

_That's the second time this week he's canceled lunch on her. _

_First Wednesday and now_...

Cal scratched his forehead and squinted against a forming headache. Anger increased blood pressure, which caused blood to throb against narrowed capillaries in the temples. He could feel that throb and did his best to relieve it; he wouldn't be able to think straight if he was facing a case of head discomfort.

Several minutes passed, and the ache was eased to a dull roar. Breathing deeply, Cal snatched up his pen and tapped it against his desk, his eyes focusing on the collage. According to Ria, Alec had ducked out of a lunch date with Gillian on Wednesday. Wednesday, approximately five minutes after returning from her lunch break, Gillian had made a stab at his humanity. There were no coincidences when it came to behavior, he reminded himself.

The placement of the post-it had indicated sadness and surprise; he had originally assumed she meant his sadness and her surprise. Not so. "Ah," he mumbled: her sadness. Her surprised. Her sadness caused by another canceled date with her husband, her surprise at taking anger out on him. Gillian was conveying a message to him using a medium he could understand; silence. But written silence was just guesswork if she didn't allow him to hear her say it with truth or see it written across her face.

The post-it meant nothing if she didn't validate it herself; if she didn't trust him enough to explain with expressions or words.

Knock. Tap.

Cal struggled with pushing down a groan as he threw himself back into his chair. He didn't want her to knock, he wanted her to walk in without permission, "Come in."

Gillian entered, a smile plastered with careful precision across her face (so precise, this woman). Fake? Fake? Fake? Fake. His head was beginning to ache again. When had she become so good at lying to herself that it was hard to see the truth on her face? When had trust become such an issue between them that she had to rely talking to him through a post-it and not in person? When had it become so muddy that his own daughter knew Gillian was hiding something before he did?

He was already facing the collapse of one friend's support, he didn't want to face another.

She sensed something in the way he was looking at her and stopped short, the smile fading as she pointed back toward the door, "I was just stopping in to see if you were hungry..." her voice softened near the end of the sentence, showing uncertainty.

He watched her, one hand on the armrest, one hand on his desk, eyes focused and lower lip pushed out. His fingers were tapping his frustration, and her eyes darted between his face and hands before her gaze followed his to the familiar shade of yellow on his computer monitor.

Silence. He saw it on her face; recognition first, then worry, then disbelief when she concluded that his agitation was directly linked to her written apology. Her eyes caught his, the gears churned in her head, and she worried her lower lip as she took a sharp breath in through her nose.

She'd expected this much from him, and the outcome left her conflicted. He wanted to know. She wanted to tell him; but something resting between the messages was making the entire process too difficult. Eyes to the post-it, she sighed, "What do you want from me, Cal?"

His finger tapped, his eyes narrowed. "Nothing." Stubborn.

Her weight shifted, resting heavily on her right leg as she searched his face. Sadness. "You're lying."

Defiant shake of the head, glimmering eyes, her shift of position; Gillian was trying to push the focus off of herself by throwing it at him. No. Not this time, not when a truth was hovering so plainly in their faces. They didn't do this, they didn't play this game, it was something they had agreed silently upon years before. She had promised to trust him and he promised to give her something to trust.

But Cal needed her to tell him about Alec. Because that was what this was about. He wanted her to tell him about it in words. Herself. He didn't want to guess the truth about what she knew and didn't know any longer. Not when he cared so much about her well being. Not when his sanity hinged on it as much as hers did.

Leaning forward, bracing his forearms against the edge of his desk, Cal tapped his index finger on the surface of the glass, his jaw clenching in the anger he didn't try to contain. "So are you."

* * *

Author's note: Thanks to _a tattered rose_, silly me, I deemed Cal's desk wood, when it is most certainly NOT!


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Ah, the puzzle that is team!Lightman. I'm making a leap here, hoping I land on my feet.

Last installment.

Side note: I've changed my pen name from _Dr. Who 4 u_ to _Dr. Whatsit. _The former was driving me crazy.

* * *

**Wednesday's Child**

Chapter Five

* * *

Truth has layers.

Eli Loker had learned long ago that to speak the truth one had to understand what it meant first, had to master the art of being honest with themselves before claiming pure honesty with others. Truth rests on the cusp of perception; a haircut that your friends love but your significant other considers an eyesore. Like a story, it always has two conflicting sides, two variations of the same idea, two very distinct possibilities. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter, his father would say.

He had learned through his connection with Lightman and Foster that if he was to speak the truth he had to know the why first. No half-baked perceptions, he had been warned. If you catch someone lying don't call them on it unless you know you can produce what they are hiding. Don't be stupid, don't be arrogant, and don't stick your nose where it doesn't rightfully belong. Appearances, sure, talk about them all you want. Language, take a stab at it, go ahead. Your personal life, chatter away. Someone else's personal life you _haven't_ been paid to dissect, specifically Gillian Foster's, keep your mouth shut or lose your job.

Eli Loker may be Radical, but he was no idiot. He knew when to skirt his eyes away from Alec Foster to avoid seeing the lies. He knew when to dart away from Gillian when the urge to word vomit became too powerful. He had made it none of his business, and now it was his turn to help Ria make it none of hers.

It would require teaching her the Why behind a person's actions and words; the psychology, the abstract concepts, the power behind facial expressions and body language. He'd have to teach her how to investigate without using sheer assertion, how to see every possible angle before jumping to conclusions, how to set aside her own morals and beliefs in order to understand another's.

Mostly, he would have to teach her that Lies weren't Black and Truths weren't White. They were grey; lovers caught in an eternal embrace, inseparable, and meaningless apart. It was an irony, was it not, that this job fell to a man who'd made it a point to be abrasively honest?

_But_, in order to do all of this, Eli Loker would have to get her to stop staring at the psychology books with that excruciating expression of boredom first. She would become a liability if he didn't—and he liked her far too much to allow that to happen.

"Foster's nice, don't get me wrong, but if you start drooling on those, she _is_ going to kill you."

A roll of the eyes.

A grin.

It would be worth it, no doubt.

* * *

Knock. Pause. Knock.

A gifted psychologist once told him that a person's entire demeanor could be determined by the way they knocked on doors. A rapid fire of small taps and you had an excited child. One whack and an excited twisting of the doorknob, you had yourself Emily on a mission. A slow, hesitant, double knock, she'd explained carefully, and an apology was waiting for you on the other side.

He hadn't believed her, of course; but experience was beginning to leave little doubt in his mind that she had been on to something.

There was a light on in her office. It peeked through the glass at him, letting him know that although the sun had fallen and the shift had long ended, his partner was still at work. And yet, there was no one behind her desk, and the shadows cast over the plush chairs were preventing him from knowing if she was there.

Knock. Pause. Knock.

A flicker of movement in the shadows--possibly the wave of a hand. He pushed open the door and stepped in.

"You don't have to knock, Cal." Tone subdued. Refusal to look to see who had entered. Gillian knew it would be him; they never let the day end in confrontation.

"I wanted to apologize," he stated, forging the path into the needed conversation. Three hours had passed since the moment in his office. A moment interrupted by Heidi and a phone call from the governor of New Hampshire—an interruption that had replaced his anger with exhaustion and his questions with new answers.

It appeared that three hours had done the same for her. His anger, the raw force behind it and its cause, had torn away a façade she had built with smiles and apologies and post-its stuck in ridiculous places.

Fragile but resilient, voice wavering with contained tears, she spoke, "I...uh..."

Sarcasm, apology, false smiles, awkward tension, and now hesitation, Gillian Foster was deflated—eyes, posture, demeanor—a puzzle of woe finally solved.

He stepped closer, cataloging the hunch in her shoulders and the nervous wringing of her hands. Cal paused, one of his own hands resting on the top of the chair, directly behind her but not touching. This was silent comfort he knew she needed, for words he knew she was about to speak.

"I know," she balled her fist and wrapped the other around it to soothe away her fidgeting. "About Alec."

He could see the curve of her face and the corner of her faux smile, but Cal waited for her to continue. There was too much respect invested in her, too much of his own trust in her to do the same for him, and it prevented him from speaking truths about her personal life that only she had the right to admit.

"And," she continued, the uneven quality in her voice leveling out, "I know that you know; that you've known," she corrected herself. "And Ria and Loker and Heidi and his secretary..." Her jaw dropped momentarily as she caught a breath, "And I know you know that I know; that I've known," she pinched the bridge of her nose but uttered a soft, empty laugh.

Silence as she fought for composure; as he willed some of his own to her.

Gillian turned eventually and stared up at him with haggard but strong eyes. "I needed time to come to terms with it before telling you." Her gaze roamed his face, softening as the seconds ticked by. "Thank you. For not saying anything." Sincerity.

Her hand hovered closely to his before resting on the back of the cushion mere centimeters away. Close, drawing strength, but not touching. She knew how he worked. Respected it. But had she settled her hand on his just this once, Cal was sure the warmth would have been welcome.

"I'll..." her voice caught with grief, contradicting the message she conveyed with her eyes. _...get through this._

What mistress, no matter how young and beautiful, could ever replace this woman's silent strength? How could Alec believe that sharing someone else's bed would ease the pain that had afflicted their marriage? These were the questions she would be asking herself for a long time to come, the questions that would scream at her at night and keep her awake.

Cal wished he could tell her that he already knew the answer. That it wasn't Gillian who was weak, that it was her husband, and she was only the one paying for it with a mountain of lies and cordial smiles.

If only it were that easy.

She waited; eyes focused thoughtfully on his as Cal searched for his own voice.

When he found it—hidden deeply behind sorrow and consternation—it was rough, sandpaper against his throat, and tempered with a hard swallow and emotion's treachery.

"I know."


End file.
